Читать книгу Mt Kilimanjaro & Me - Annette Freeman - Страница 7

One of the most important elements in a fun and successful trekking experience is the group with whom you trek. Who wants to walk all day and then camp with people you can’t stand? Or even people who bore you? Luckily for me, several years before I had the good fortune to link up with a small group of friends, lawyers like me, who decided to trek to Everest Base Camp in Nepal. Fortunately for everyone involved, the core group gelled very well, and we became fast friends. Trekking in third world countries at the extreme end of your comfort zone is very bonding. We had taken several other treks together since then, usually the same core group with others coming and going. For Africa – our highest attempt yet – we had a large contingent of twenty people, all of whom had been training madly for at least a year.

The group gathered in Arusha, the ‘Geneva of Africa’. We speculated on this sobriquet, seen on an airport billboard. We assumed it was inspired by the UN connection. Our African adventure had commenced.

Arusha, in Tanzania, has a large United Nations delegation in residence, and has been the site of the Rwanda genocide commission hearings for the past several years. We also found out later that Arusha lies just about half way between Cape Town and Cairo, and has been the base for various regional political initiatives, such as the East Africa Community (Kenya, Uganda and Tanzania) and peace talks about Burundi.

We had come from eight countries to be led up Kilimanjaro by Wally Berg, whose company, Berg Adventures, is a mountaineering and adventure guiding outfit based in Canmore in the Canadian Rockies. Wally has, dauntingly, climbed Kilimanjaro more than 30 times. Heck, he’s summitted Mt Everest four times! I found it a bit humbling to ask him which jacket to wear and if I’d need gaiters. On the other hand, his undoubted experience and expertise made me feel confident and safe.

After quite a lot of Tusker beer and briefings, Wally told us that on this first afternoon we’d all be able to stretch our plane legs on a short hike in the foothills of Mt Meru, just outside of, and towering over, Arusha. We’d already walked around Arusha itself, a teeming town of about one million people, most of whom seemed to be in the market when we walked through. It was hot and dusty, despite being rather high (by Australian standards) at 1380 metres above sea level. We piled into the bus, geared up, camera-ed and sunscreened. There was a lot of discussion about malaria risk. Wally poo-pooed it, but we all kept taking our medication and sleeping under the hotel mosquito nets at night. Baladi, a strong and wiry Basque from Spain, wore lime-green shirts. He’d read that the tsetse fly is attracted to blue and black. Although he’s strong, Baladi had no wish for a run-in with dangerous illness. (In fact, we later saw flags positioned in the bushes of the plains, blue and black and impregnated with tsetse fly poison, in an attempt to control the dangerous insect).

As we set out, I met two Americans for the first time, both new to our group. Mike and Andy were buddies though work and hiking together. Mike is from Orlando, where he runs his own law practice. He has three teenage kids and a very wacky sense of humour. Andy had left a corporate job to start his own practice too, but he was based in Los Angeles. He seemed older than Mike, and had a big bushy beard behind which he hid a somewhat retiring personality. He was the quiet one, Mike the life and soul. They seemed an unlikely pair to be planning to share a tent, but both turned out to be great guys to have on a trek. However on this first morning in Arusha, getting to know the guys was ahead, and we merely traded polite tales of the flight to Tanzania. Mike’s luggage hadn’t arrived, which was a bummer.

Mike seemed extremely cheerful for someone whose luggage – including his hiking boots – had not yet arrived. Hiking boots are the one item you can’t just borrow, or go out and replace at the local hiking shop. They have to have been worn in by your own feet if problems on a long trek are to be avoided. So no boots could very well mean no trek, or at least one with bad blisters. I immediately began to do quite enough worrying for Mike. He remained perfectly cool. Mike’s looks are Average Mr. America, with his dark hair worn neatly slicked back. He’s open-faced, approachable and funny, and speaks quickly, with a slight lisp. And he’s cool under pressure, it seems. While I was worrying for him, he was telling funny stories about his training hikes in the Florida Everglades, somewhere below sea level. No altitude to be found in Florida. One story involved an alligator barring his way and having to go home the long way, which he also seemed quite calm about.

The Mt Meru foothills hike set out happily through lush village farms and plantations. We could tell that this was a rich coffee-growing area. African children and their cows and goats were all around us. We ate our boxed lunches (so many were to follow!) in the grassy grounds of a school, giving away titbits from the boxes to the children who clustered around. I assumed it was a school, as there were buildings, children and a playing field, although I saw no teacher or other adult, and the kids were barefooted and in ragged clothes.

Feeling full of liveliness and camaraderie, we took our first group photo, with Meru in the background and a colourful batik sign made by Berg Adventures’ Arusha office. Then we continued on up into the foothills. It grew a little cooler and the trail flattened out a bit. Catching up with friends and absorbing Africa – it was very enjoyable.

Just as I was thinking that we’d been out for two or three hours and our short hike must soon be ending, it actually began. Wally had mentioned a stream and a waterfall at the briefing. We descended. Vertically. I’ve never been on such a steep trail before or since (including Roland), and if I hadn’t been with companions I never would have attempted it. The narrow, vertical track was merely a flattened-out line through the lush jungle growth. It led down a heavily wooded cliffside, barely wide enough to take a boot. The only saving grace was the presence of saplings and vines to grip. I descended hanging from these useful props, using my arms and hands more than my feet, swinging like a monkey. After what seemed a very long time, and with much complaining from me, we reached a pretty creek bed.

I now suspected Wally of a set-up. This short hike was clearly a Berg test of some sort, and not only of physical readiness. There had been an announcement about walking in a creek before we left base, and an informal sort of discussion about bringing sandals, or maybe Wally had said his guides had some spare pairs? A number of people had not brought sandals with them, and a general contretemps ensued. I suspected Wally of noting all this down for future reference. Who is self-sufficient? Who is going to expect the guides to cover for them?

I need not add that I had my sandals with me. Naturellement. Responsibility for your own gear. Once bitten, etcetera.

The creek walk was actually great fun and the icy cold water was soothing for tired dusty feet. We waded and rock-hopped as far as a spectacular waterfall and pool, which attracted a few hardy swimmers. John, a large, strong New Zealander with an enviable tan, exuberantly stripped off his shirt and was one of the first to dive in. Baladi is a hard-core swimmer – he swims every day if he can – but he hesitated, concerned about possible African parasites in the water. However, the cool spray beckoned and he succumbed, diving in while carefully keeping his mouth shut tight. We spent about an hour and a half down in the creek.

I had avoided thinking about the climb out. I find it’s best to worry about the way back only when you have to. Yes, it was just as steep as the way down – Wally said we’d encounter nothing as steep on Kilimanjaro. But mercifully it was shorter. However the hike back to the bus, through villages and towns, seemed interminable. Mike’s casual town shoes, which he’d been forced to wear because of his lost luggage, were by this stage very much the worse for wear. Wally later confessed that our short hike had been sixteen kilometres, which is not inconsiderable for a single afternoon, including steep terrain. I think Wally was sorting a few sheep from goats, but I don’t think he found anyone particularly wanting, and we all seemed to thrive on it in the end. We were in Africa!

Next stop: Kilimanjaro.